Legend
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: There is legend. And then there is truth. In 10th century England, three wizards banded together, not to found a school, but to concoct one of the greatest lies ever told. And thus began the history of Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Rowling's work.

**Chapter One**

_York, England-the 10th__ century _

Helga sat her horse like a man, her slender legs astride the leather saddle instead of draped neatly over the pommel. Salazar thought the position suited her well, echoing with masculinity, but touched with her subtle feminine wiles. A man could destroy himself pondering over the idiosyncrasies of a woman like Helga Hufflepuff…most of England already had.

But Salazar was not a Saxon, nor was he a blue-painted Celt. He had been in Normandy when his cavalcade was raided and his Frankish captors had sold him to strange warriors in longboats. Originally, he hailed from Constantinople.

Helga's horse side-stepped into his, hitting his hip. He winced.

She pulled the reins taut with a frown. "Such a delicate creature you are."

Salazar rubbed his upper thigh. "I cannot sit my horse for two days straight like you, my lady," he replied, forcing a drop of servility to soften his otherwise lofty tone.

Helga raised her narrow chin and appraised him, just as she had the day he was brought before her for casting spells at several of her soldiers. And since then, she hadn't let him out of her sight.

"I dreamt of my fortune last night," she said in her roguish Cornish accent. "All of Britannia and Alba lay at my feet, but I was devoured by a lion."

Salazar exhaled sharply. "Consult your shamans. I am no Seer."

Helga laughed, amused by his daring, But she was a warrior first and her attention was quickly stolen by the rush of arduous activity that rendered the countryside less than peaceful that morning.

"Look how industrious they are," she said, directing his gaze to the valley below them, where men labored in the chill of autumn, digging trenches and raising earthworks to fortify her newly captured land.

Another six months and she would have Alba as well as England. Helga had plans to besiege and win Rowena Ravenclaw's castle before winter settled in. The Queen of Cornwall was destined to become the Queen of Britannia. So the Seeing Bones of the Celts said and the shamans Helga often consulted.

Salazar himself wasn't sure.

He glanced at the crude fortifications, his very core rejecting and reviling the Muggle work. Why would a witch like Helga resort to using their dirty, unskilled hands for her benefit? It was most unbecoming.

"How many trees have you felled?" Salazar asked pointedly. The sky was bruised with early sunlight, unappealing in its weakness and lack of warmth.

But Helga was rosy-cheeked, not fair but fierce. He supposed her distinct features served her well, marking her at once as the conqueror she had grown into at the tender age of twenty-six.

She had the aspirations of Alexander, but possessed one thing the Macedonian did not.

Magic.

The word was an illicit thing still, sensual almost. And unlike Salazar, Helga had not sought to conceal her abilities from the world. No, she cultivated them, increased them and so began to claim all of England as her own.

He was only now by her side because of his own sorcery. Otherwise, he would be with the rest of the foreign slaves, digging ditches with ungainly wooden trowels, left to die by the roadside when he became useless or was beaten to death by a drunken master.

"There are enough firs in this part of the country to build ten dozen strongholds," Helga remarked, her horse shifting uneasily. "Stop your fretting. I will not have my soldiers tear down the whole of the forest."

_But you could if you wished_, Salazar thought bitterly. He had seen Helga do it before, ravage the land she was fighting to conquer. And therein laid another of her idiosyncrasies, which men lost themselves to and so were lain low by a woman…._a woman_.

"The forest is not yours entirely," he muttered, ever so willing to pick at her pride.

Helga tolerated his antics. "That bothersome little tribe."

"The Gryffindors."

"Viking whoresons. I shall see to them."

"There are rumors." Salazar sank deep within the musty recesses of his cloak, a piece of finery that was only afforded to him in deference to Helga's favoritism.

"Speak to me of them." She turned her head, her single, long braid dangling by her hip. Loosening the reins in her gloved hands, she let her horse drop his head and graze.

"The Gryffindors follow the old religion," Salazar said slowly, "they have a high priest named Godric, so your Celt slaves say."

"A magician?" Helga arched a golden brow.

Salazar shook his head, his hair striking his cold cheeks. "A wizard."

"Like you?"

"Like us."

Helga looked thoughtful, her brow creased, the eager dawn light slanting into her keen eyes. "My mind is changed," she said, smiling as she watched the progress of her soldiers in the valley below. "We shall treat with the Gryffindors after all."

* * *

Godric crouched in a grove of yew trees, his skillful fingers holding fast the branches of a nearby shrub. Half a league from his shelter he noticed the muddy tracks of cart wheels snaking along a narrow woodland trail. Several Cornish slaves lingered, stacking the boughs of sapling firs onto their shoulders like pack animals.

"They are looking for kindling," he muttered, his breath fogging the air with a humid vapor. "Queen Helga means to stay the winter."

Wilfred, a young, but capable warrior of the Gryffindor clan knelt in underbrush beside him.

"She wants us dead," he rasped.

Godric felt his hand tighten over the branch. "No, we are but cubs to her. She seeks the northern bear."

Wilfred unsheathed his hunting knife and planted it in the bole of a yew. "Alba."

"Our land has become her army's breeding ground." Godric glanced at the warrior, his brows jumping together in thought. "The clan must stay hidden until she passes through."

"Impossible!" Wilfred shook his shaggy head, the tendrils of his tawny mane damp with frost.

Godric set his jaw. _Youth_. Oh to be young again, when the forest was still forgiving and lush with unspent years. Now his life lay before him like shattered trunks, splintered, decaying, ready for the pyre.

If only he had time.

"I will keep the clan safe," he intoned, hoping that his simple words would act as a spell and guard them against the danger that every day drew closer…now felling the trees, now defiling the sacred groves and glens.

He shut his eyes to the sound of Wilfred's laughter. The pup did not believe him, could not wrap his mind around a battle joined not with swords, but with the power that Godric alone possessed.

His magic, he was certain, could at least divert Helga's conquering armies until the spring came.

Perhaps then the Queen of Cornwall's armies would be too entrenched in their war with Rowena of Alba and she would overlook the small Gryffindor clan.

Godric prayed to the gods nightly for such a miracle and he offered up sacrifices of doves in the sacred groves to the goddess of war, hoping that for once, she would abandon the warrioress Helga and take pity on his people instead.

But his kinsmen, men like Wilfred and his own brother Bertwulf, the chieftain, put little faith in his abilities. They were preparing for war, as their Viking forefathers had done when they first came to raid England.

Godric was utterly alone and yet the only one capable of keeping the Gryffindors truly safe.

He lowered his head, pressing his brow for a moment against the dried leaves of the bush.

"The sun is near risen," he muttered to his companion. "We must return to the hollow."

But Wilfred continued to vent his scornful mirth, his heavy palm testing the bark of the tree, kneading the sap beneath until it oozed out onto his hand.

A single arrow came from beyond the branches and so killed him where he stood.

Godric whirled around just in time to see five of Helga's soldiers come lumbering into the grove. He knew them from their leather hauberks, their furred helms and broken Cornish leers.

"Viking filth!" the foremost spat, his sword arm arched and ready.

Godric saw the flash of the blade in the dawn light. Shoving aside his shock, he dove to the ground, tucked his large body into a neat ball and rolled. Thrusting his hand into his tunic, he withdrew his wand and cast the first defensive spell that came to mind.

The foremost soldier twitched madly, his sword falling from a hand now withered to the bone.

"Sorcery!" Another shrieked, but Godric cut his scream off before it entirely left his throat.

Slashing his wand fiercely, he severed the man's throat with a single hex.

Blood dampened the ground. Unclean blood.

Godric grimaced. The gods would be vengeful. But he had no time to rue the defilement.

Two soldiers lunged at him in unison. His knees buckled under the weight of the men, forcing him onto his side. A small, but lethal-looking hatchet dangled over his skull.

In blind rage, he jammed his wand into the ribs of one of the men and screamed aloud.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

The curse was a foreign one that he learned from a traveling. Godric had never used it before, fearful, as he was, of its dreadful consequences.

A flash of green light illuminated the glade and the man directly on top of him went limp. Godric heard the death rattle shake his lungs.

The second man leapt to his feet with a cry at the sight, inarticulate now as he beheld his dead comrade.

He and the other soldier deserted the glade, leaving their fallen companions to rot miserably in the throes of death.

Godric gained his feet and turned, wrenching Wilfred's hunting knife out of the tree trunk. His fellow clansman lay dead in a pool of his own stinking bile and blood.

And despite himself, Godric could conjure no pity within himself.

It was as the priests from Rome said. Those that lived by the sword often died by it.

What, then, would slay him?

Godric tucked his wand discreetly into his tunic. He was about to leave when the underbrush rustled behind him.

Godric glanced slowly over his shoulder.

There was a tall man standing on the edge of the clearing, the hood of his mantle cast back to reveal hair the color of burnt peat. His eyes were sharp and discerning and in his hand, he held a wand.

_A wand!_

For the first time in his life, Godric froze.

Another wizard. Another man like himself, composed of flesh, blood, bone.

And he was with Queen Helga's army.

The stranger smiled, an expression entirely different from the one he had beheld on the faces of the Cornish soldiers.

"So it is true," he murmured, a hint of a foreign accent touching his voice.

With a faint crack, he disappeared.

Godric lurched forward in desperation. "Wait!"

But the glade was empty

* * *

Godric returned in haste to the hollow the Gryffindor clan called home. It was an unimpressive piece of land, with a small cluster of dwellings and several farms spread out over roughly fifty acres. The village itself had not changed much since their Viking forefathers had moored their boats on England's shore. Only now, the long houses were considerably more permanent than nomadic encampments. The Gryffindors themselves were an inconspicuous people who still clung to their old religion while the Christ-God began to gain ground in surrounding regions.

Godric himself felt as though his position as high priest was endangered, more so now that Hegla's army had crested the foothills only ten leagues away.

Things were changing. The world was becoming smaller. And Godric knew he could not hide his clan for long.

Arriving at the hollow, he made his way to his brother Bertulf's dwelling, the hunting knife of the slain Wilfred still clenched in has hand and sticky with sap.

The chieftain's house was in the middle of the village. Godric stepped into Bertulf's long house, the scent of smoke and cooking meat making his empty stomach groan. His footfalls were instantly softened by the prized furs spread on the ground and the chill from the early fall morning dissipated, leaving his flesh moist with dew.

His brother was seated by the fire, picking apart a side of cooked venison with his large hands.

Godric tossed the knife at his feet. "Wilfred is dead. Helga's soldiers caught us unawares while we spied upon them."

Bertulf's face darkened as he tossed a bit of fat into his mouth. "You should not have gone into the forest. It is theirs now."

"Hers." Godric growled. He paced the hut frantically, sunlight seeping through the roughly hewn beams above. "She has her slaves felling the trees. The forest will be lain bare in a fortnight. Nothing stands between her army and us."

Bertulf swallowed, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Brother," he said slowly, but then fell silent.

Godric offered him a firm glance. In his mind, Bertulf was too young to be chieftain, although his father had slighted Godric as the elder son upon his death. Now the gilded torc rested on Bertulf's neck and not his.

He looked away, fighting the envy that threatened him.

His magic had taken many things away from him and bestowed little in return. Although not openly persecuted by his kinsmen, Godric had felt their scorn and disbelief more than once. Even as chieftain, Bertulf did not concern himself with his brother's abilities although he was quick to take advantage of the skills that sustained the clan.

Now Godric felt he would barely be able to keep his people safe from Helga's magicians. His usefulness was stunted and had grown stale.

Bertulf rubbed his long chin with his hand, his beard smudged with grease.

"We have no choice," Godric said desperately, moving further into the shadows of fire at his brother's feet. "We shall have to move the clan."

Bertulf snorted, his large nostrils dilating. "To where? Alba? Hegla will have conquered that land by next summer."

"Ireland, maybe," Godric offered. "She will not spare us otherwise. Larger clans have fallen to her, powerful clans, Bertulf."

"This is not a decision to be made in haste," his brother muttered. A log in the fire cracked, sending ashes scattering near his booted toes.

"And there is more," Godric continued, hoping to impress the seriousness of their situation upon Bertulf. The morning haze had rendered his brother unusually lazy, but Godric, who had already cheated death once that day, was eager for action. "Her soldiers are not the least of our troubles. I met a man in the woods who was with them. He carried a wand…a wand, Bertulf! Helga has knowledge of magic and if she knows the right spells, then my enchantments are useless." He fisted his hand in his blond hair. "Gods, our last defense…broken."

Bertulf stood suddenly, the movement disturbing the embers and stirring the logs. He batted away the rising smoke, his eyes narrowed. "She knows of magic," he said softly, distantly. Cupping his hands together, he pressed them against his face.

Godric stared at his brother. Was the man so terrified that he was left senseless? He fought the urge to shake him roughly from his stupor. But then Bertulf's wife entered the long house and Godric was stayed.

"Erna, well met," he said by way of greeting as the comely girl placed a pitcher of fresh milk by the door.

She lowered her eyes to him and dipped her shoulders respectfully.

Godric's eyes trailed to her full breasts and round belly. Erna was heavy with child, his brother's child and yet still fair as a maiden.

He felt desire stirring within him and looked away.

But Erna crossed over the furs and took his hands in hers, kissing them. "Dear brother Godric," she said, tears diluting her blue eyes.

"What is this?" Godric asked.

Bertulf shook his head, his face tight with emotion. "I received envoys from Helga a short time after you left. She is willing to treat with us, to offer us peace."

"Peace." Godric spoke the word in wild abandon. The gods were not shunning them after all! He could have fallen to his knees and wept.

But Erna was already sobbing quietly.

"She was very particular," Bertulf continued, his voice a mere rasp now. "I could not persuade her envoys, could not bribe them with gold or kine…She offered us peace, brother, if only I would send the wizard to her."

Godric's jaw slackened and he felt Erna's hands slipping from his.

"What do you speak of?" he managed to choke out.

"Helga wants you, Godric. She will let the clan alone if only she might have you."

Godric stumbled back, away from his treacherous sibling. "Why would she ask for such a thing?"

Bertulf did not answer, but covered his face with his hands again.

Wide shadows fell through the doorway and Godric saw several of the clan's strongest warriors awaiting him, their swords girded to their thick bodies.

He guessed their purpose at once.

Trembling, Godric reached over the fire and tore Bertulf's hands away from his face. "Never fear, brother," he spat. "I go to Helga in peace and willingly so! May you live long and grow fat on your guilt."

Bertulf pulled away from him, moaning. Godric, however, turned purposefully and headed out of the long house, but not before dear Erna had caught his shoulder.

"Take this, dear brother Godric!" she begged him, pressing a golden goblet into his hand, a treasure from her dowry. "Mayhap you will find favor with the Queen."

* * *

**Author's Note: **As you may have gathered, this is indeed an AU take on the story of the Founders. Also, this fic is not meant to be historically accurate. Rather, it's an HP take on the Dark Ages. ^_^

Thanks so much for taking the time to read! If you have a spare moment, please leave a review. I would love to hear from you.

I hope you have a great week!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Rowling's work. Also, this story is a work of fantasy, not historical fiction. I have taken many historical liberties while writing this piece and most of it may be considered anachronistic.

**Chapter Two**

_Alba-Hogwarts Castle_

Spinning, spinning, spinning…then falling. Fast. Through stars. Fall. Fall.

Silence.

She saw the countryside. Alba. Hills and moors. Valleys and glens. The clear, clear waters of the loch.

Hogwarts standing tall. Stone upon stone.

And then the wild wind came. Leaves fell. The apple rotted. Uneaten. The waters of the loch were diverted, trained into channels for irrigation.

Black figures threatened the hills and bonfires reached into the sky…poisoned it with smoke.

All in the name of the one from Cornwall.

Spinning, spinning, spinning…then falling.

Stop!

Rowena lay on the parapet, a freezing rain drenching her pale limbs. Another spasm took her and she retched, the last of the Sight leaving.

The stars did not lie.

Clawing at the stones, she dragged herself up onto her knees and looked over the walls to the forest below. The storm lapped at the loch. Waves sucked the fertile soil from the shore.

She wept.

Alba would fall to Helga Hufflepuff, the one who called herself the Queen of Cornwall and so sundered all of England.

Now Alba…now her home.

Rowena had not been raised in the halls of warriors. She was a sickly, harried woman, a woman who had inherited the throne of Alba from her mother.

And now her ancestors cursed her from their cairns, for mother had power the likes of which could have rivaled Helga.

But Rowena only possessed the Sight. She was the Cassandra of the North and her shrieks riding the highland winds instead of teasing Troy.

Hogwarts alone stood now, unwithered, but wan in the light of the moon.

And soon the castle that her mother had built would be in the hands of Helga.

Rowena could do nothing to stop it.

Surrendering the last of her strength, she collapsed on the parapet and welcomed the rain that assaulted her. It was sometime before her handmaiden Ailbhe came with a cloak and candle to fetch her.

* * *

_Yorkshire, England_

Godric glowered in the light of the many torches. Captured he was, enslaved, but not defeated.

Helga's soldiers led him through her camp.

The place was not so impressive up close. The bleeding, setting sun disguised many of the roughly constructed tents. Weary, lean warriors lounged on the last of the summer grass, their jowls working over pieces of stale bread.

Godric himself was not a soldier. He could not guess at what made men fight or what made them particularly good at it. He did wonder, although, if Helga was pleased with herself. Would she stroll amongst her men and swell with pride at the sight of them?

No. He imagined her sitting in her pavilion like some Eastern emperor. Fat. Bloated. With eunuchs to sing to her and incense wafting into the bewitched night air.

Disgust mingled with the fear curdling his gut. He did not want to be her slave…and yet he had spared his clan by doing so. The Gryffindors would survive her invasion, albeit as a puppet people guided by his spineless brother Bertulf.

But Godric, not a warrior, would have fought Helga to the end.

And here he was, being led to her on a leash that bound his hands.

He could have fled. Could have forsaken Bertulf and his kinsmen. His magic would allow him to hide, to live as a hermit…in shame and disgrace.

No. Let Bertulf be shamed. Let his every waking moment be poisoned by remembrance and his dreams haunted by nightmares.

Godric would surely suffer less than his brother.

But why had Helga sent for him in the first place? The mystery of it troubled him more than his captivity.

Magic was not looked upon kindly by most these days. Images of hellfire and punishment circled in his mind like scavenging crows.

Perhaps he would meet his death.

A tug on the leash told him that his captors were getting bored. They had led him through a twisted labyrinth of lanes into the heart of the camp. Godric noticed the silhouettes of several siege weapons through the falling dark. To him, they looked like slumbering dragons.

As he had guessed, he was brought to a large pavilion, although no seductive incense tickled his nose as of yet. Torches lent the air a fair shimmer and Godric found himself balking on the threshold.

Magic lay thick about this place.

His captors dragged him forward and with some difficulty, he was pulled inside.

Godric felt his footfalls softened by furs. He looked down, more willing to stare at the pelts beneath his feet than the opulent excess which must surround him.

He heard a distinctly feminine grunt and could not help but suppress a shudder.

"So this is the Gryffindor? Let me see him."

A cold, calloused hand grabbed his chin and forced it up.

Godric tried to wrench himself from her grasp, but found he couldn't.

He was enslaved.

Helga Hufflepuff stood before him, a creature of such delectable ferocity that his skin prickled with the thrill of seeing her. She had a small, feral face with a straight, aquiline nose. Her coloring was fair and she wore her hair tightly braided behind her head.

And to Godric's utter shock, she was just as tall as him, her figure clad in a mail haubrek that rendered her womanly curves flat.

"Your wand." Without warning, Helga plunged her hand inside his cloak and patted about the torso of his tunic. Her fingers found the wand he had tucked inside his belt and extracted it.

Having freed it, she then produced a wand of her own and touched it to the tip of his.

Godric felt his eyes widen in shock. Helga was a witch.

Unrestrained relief flooded his veins. Perhaps there was reason to her summons after all. He watched in mute curiosity as she murmured a spell, causing his wand to tremble in her outstretched palm.

"What are you doing?" he asked at length.

Helga ignored him, but another man stepped forward from the shadows with a crooked smile. Godric recognized his thick, dark cloak at once.

He was the man he had seen the in sacred grove just outside the hollow.

"She wants to make certain that you cannot escape," the man said. He reveled in Godric's shock, amusement sharpening his moody features.

"Enough, Salazar." This was Helga. Having completed her spell, she handed back his wand. "Are you indeed the high priest of the Gryffindor clan?" she asked.

"Yes," Godric replied guardedly.

"What do they call you?"

"Godric."

"And you are a wizard?"

He did not answer.

Helga's eyes crinkled slightly. "Never mind. I can sense magic on you. It is powerful indeed." She touched his shoulder. "I hear you have a gift for me."

Her words aroused Godric from his stupor. Clumsily, he rifled about his belt for the goblet, producing it after a few minutes of frantic fumbling.

"From my clan, my lady," he said breathlessly, holding out the goblet for her.

Helga did not take it, but once more pointed her wand at it. "_Aguamenti_," she muttered.

The goblet filled with water. Obediently, one of Godric's captors stepped forward and took the goblet from him, draining it.

Silence reigned for a moment, then all breathed a sigh of relief.

Helga grinned at Godric. "Not poisoned, I see." Seemingly satisfied that he was not dangerous, she used her wand to sever the ropes binding his wrists.

He captors left the tent, taking the goblet with them. Godric was left alone with Helga and the man called Salazar.

At last, he had a chance to observe his surroundings. Hegla's quarters, like her person, were neat and sleek. She possessed no obvious treasures or spoils that Godric could see, but had a great quantity of maps and other scrolls of parchment. To the side of one squat table, he noticed what appeared to be a stack of books, bound by rough leather. Cautiously, he flipped one open and was immediately bewildered by the writing.

Latin.

"It speaks of the Draught of Living Death," Salazar said, suddenly close enough to Godric to breath down his neck. "Asphodel brewed in an infusion of wormwood, with valerian roots and sopophorous beans. Give it to a man and you can skin him while he sleeps…he shall not wake."

Godric shut the book abruptly and scowled at the strange man. "You are a foreigner," he grunted.

"From the East, where all magic springs," Salazar drawled.

Godric's frown deepened. Instinct told him not to trust this man, dripping with treachery as he was…like a serpent.

Helga had seated herself at a long table. Two slaves entered carrying a platter of roast meat and bread. A third brought a bowl of blood-red apples soaked in fragrant wine. She beckoned Godric to her.

"Dine with me."

He slid onto the creaking bench opposite her, feeling awkward in his grimy leather trousers and tunic.

"All brawn and little thought these Gryffindors are," Salazar commented as he tried to join Helga on her bench.

She smiled coldly at him. "You dine alone, Salazar."

Shock registered on the man's face, but apparently, he knew Helga well enough not to tempt her. In all haste, he left the table and the pavilion, somewhat cowed now that his mistress had dismissed him.

Helga turned her full attention on Godric. "I want to know of your clan. Do all your kinsmen possess magic?"

She was straightforward. Godric found he could appreciate her brusque manner. There was no room for honeyed words. He relaxed slightly.

"Only myself," he replied.

One of the slaves began to carve the roast. Hunks of meat were placed on the crusty bread and served to Helga first, then Godric. She picked apart her meal with her fingers.

"And you are the high priest?"

Godric hesitated before tearing some of the greasy meat and popping it into his mouth. His empty stomach, however, urged him to make a glutton of himself. "We reverence the old gods, not the man called Christ."

"We are alike then." Helga took a knife from her boot and proceeded to cut some of the tough gristle from the bone. "Although I offer worship to no god save magic. There are many of us in this land…despite what Salazar says."

Godric felt his jaw slacken as he chewed. "I have only rarely met another witch or wizard."

Helga snorted in amusement. "We are at least equal in number to the powerless ones. Perhaps you have not looked hard enough."

"I have not looked at all."

"Then you must be lonely."

"Indeed." He found himself staring at her.

Helga called for wine and the drink was bought to her in the very goblet Godric had delivered.

"We shall drink to new meetings then…or perhaps reunions," she toasted.

Godric raised the wooden cup a slave had handed him and drank deep. The wine was sharp, so deliciously sharp. He bathed in its perfume.

"Some of the Celts have told me your people came with the Norsemen," Helga said. She dipped some of her bread in the juice of the meat.

"So our songs say, though we have lived in the hollow for many seasons," he replied.

"You do not look much like a Viking raider."

"Have you known any?"

"Several. Ugly creatures. They scorn their magic. You, I sense, do not."

Godric said nothing. He was beginning to wonder what exactly Helga was planning to do with him. Would it be too dangerous to ask outright?

"Why did you send for me?" he asked at length.

Helga's keen eyes darted up to meet his. Godric shifted on the bench. He felt very much as though he were being judged like a prized stallion, although Helga seemed to be inspecting his mind and not his flesh.

"I have not decided yet," she said, a ripe smile splitting her lips.

Godric could taste the rich wine on her breath.

* * *

Salazar huddled angrily outside of Helga's pavilion. Pacing. Pacing. The ground was firm with frost and his boots crunched on the stiff grass. It was happening…happening all too soon.

He was being cast aside.

Helga had long talked of finding what she desired most…the one treasure she could not plunder and hoard.

But was the Gryffindor worthy enough?

Salazar grimaced in fury as he drew deeper into his cloak. He was losing his position and so his safety.

Pacing. Pacing. The guards on duty watched him, but said nothing. They were rightfully frightened of his powers.

Salazar scorned them. Weaklings. In his frustration, he half-contemplated turning them each into worms. It would make for a fitting transmutation and he could use their blood for his potion brewing.

But just as he was reaching for his wand, the Gryffindor emerged from Helga's pavilion and was led to his lodgings by a torch-bearing slave.

Salazar turned where he stood and stared at the wizard's back.

Perhaps it would be much easier to turn him into a worm.

"Salazar." That was Helga, calling for him now that she had had her fill of the Gryffindor's stupidity.

"My lady." He followed her inside the pavilion, allowing the warmth of the strategically placed braziers to embrace him. The remnants of a hearty meal littered the table. Helga settled herself in her chair, a throne that had been carted all the way from Cornwall and had once seated her father, the King.

She was lounging in it now, picking her teeth.

"What do you know of Alba and the Ravenclaw?" she asked deliberately.

Salazar let the hood of his cloak fall to his shoulders, damp as it was with frost. "Only so much that is useful. The Ravenclaws are a magical family, now reduced to a single daughter, Rowena. She holds forth at her castle, Hogwarts. I have heard it is a treacherous place, full of falling stone and empty parapets. Rowena's mother had sought to build the grand fortress, but died before the great work could be finished. Rowena now stands as queen, although what power she has, I could not guess."

"And her resources are few?"

"Excepting her magic, yes."

"Then perhaps this matter might be settled without bloodshed." Helga rose slightly in her seat and reached behind the chair. "I have a task for you that needs doing. You shall go to Alba and present the Ravenclaw with this gift. Assure her that I will make her my client queen if she forfeits her lands to me."

Helga produced a small wooden box and lifted the lid. Inside, Salazar saw a most remarkable diadem.

"Fair enough for a puppet queen, I should think." She shut the lid. "Can I trust you with this?"

But Salazar was already plotting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Rowling's work. Also, this story is a work of fantasy, not historical fiction. I have taken many historical liberties while writing this piece and most of it may be considered anachronistic.

**Chapter Three**

Godric found himself confined to a very small corner of Helga's camp. He was restricted to a series of tents belonging to the Queen's personal guard, located behind her great pavilion. Squatting in the grass, amidst discarded saddles and broken longbows, he had a good view of her comings and goings. They were less frequent than he had first imagined.

It seemed as though Helga herself rarely left camp, but dispatched a great many underlings to do her bidding. The first of these was the Eastern foreigner, Salazar, who left early one morning with a cavalcade of five handpicked guards and a roughly hewn chest tucked discreetly in a leather satchel. Later that day, Godric heard some of Helga's guards muttering about a man they called Slytherin.

He was unpopular, it seemed, with most natives of Ablion, and they thought it unwise that he had been sent on a diplomatic mission to the Ravenclaw's stronghold.

Godric, for his part, said nothing to entice rumor or disturb the routine of the camp. Instead, he crouched in the long grass and puffed on a pipe that had been given to him by one young soldier.

He had much time to think over what his next course of action should be. Performing magic seemed in plain sight of the guards seemed particularly unwise, and he kept his wand tucked safely inside his cloak.

Escape was also risky possibility, as Godric was certain that he was being carefully watched at every moment.

He was left, then, with the singular prospect of an alliance. But what had he to offer the Queen that was any worth?

Nothing, surely.

But then why had she called for him in the first place? Certainly he was no hostage.

Godric was at a complete loss then, when three days later, Helga came for him. She ordered two of her guards to saddle four horses and took Godric out of the camp to where the land still lay wild, untouched save for a single Roman road that decayed between a great stretch of moor.

Autumn had touched the land with crimson, drying the grass until it bled beneath their horse's hooves. Helga led them along the foothills, skirting the shadows of the mounds and guiding her horse into the path of the setting sun. A hint of the horizon interrupted the line of the low mountains hugging the sky.

When they came to the edge of a dell, Helga dismissed her guards and sent them galloping back towards camp.

Godric tried to disguise his surprise. Was she not afraid of him?

No. She couldn't be.

Carefully, he watched her sway with the perfect rhythm of her mare's haunches, her mail haubrek ringing like a dozen silver bells as it hit the pommel of the saddle. She had a sword strapped to her side, though Godric wasn't much cowed by the weapon.

It was her slender wand that she kept tucked within the folds of her soft leather tunic that worried him.

In all his years, he had never encountered another witch…excepting his mother, of course.

Questions bloomed within his mind and he felt foolish. How would it seem if he asked Helga to tell him all she knew of magic? Surely, she would think less of him.

But why should that matter? Godric was not beholden to her whims, or so he told himself despite his position as a prisoner of war.

Even now, he wondered if he dare try to escape her. He would only have to dig his heels into his horse's flanks and ride fast to the safety of the foothills, where the coming night would guard him well.

And then her soldiers would come and find him. And then Helga would raze the lands of the Gryffindors just to punish him.

Godric tightened his fingers over the coarse reins , fighting his frustration.

Was he so very worthless?

Silently, he followed Helga's progress through the dell and around a hillock. After another league, she slowed her mare's pace and left the surety of the road for the untamed fields. When the grass brushed the bottom of her stirrups, she stopped and dismounted, gesturing for Godric to do the same.

As he leapt to the ground, he glanced around the terrain for any sign of life. A tiny, black bird fluttered over the hill and into the blushing sky, a lifeless worm clasped in its pointed beak.

The loneliness of the place pressed in upon him and he stayed by his horse, unwilling to move out into the open.

Helga herself was standing a few paces in front of him. She was inspecting a tall, narrow stone, its surface long bleached white by the sun. At once, she removed her gloves and rested the tips of fingers on several parallel crevices.

Her eyes closed.

There was something undeniably sacred about the moment. Godric was reminded of the times he made sacrifice to the gods, offering fresh sheaves of wheat and sheep's blood to strengthen and protect his clan.

Now, the air around them thickened with a pungent odor.

Helga turned from the stone and held out one of her hands to him.

"Come," she said. A curious smile raised her lips as she grasped his hand in hers and pressed it to the stone.

He tensed. Her palm was resting on top of his knuckles. She seemed to be willing him to feel something and then…and then.

"Magic," he whispered hoarsely.

It was there, living in the stone.

Helga's eyes widened with pleasure. "Yes."

"How did you know?" Godric asked her, his skin prickling as she released his hand.

"It is a marker," she replied and took a step backwards, inspecting the height of the stone. "An old one, but still alive. One of our ancestors must have left it. He was searching for his kin and left it here so they could find him. Muggles cannot feel it. But we can."

"Muggles?" He had never heard the word before.

"Those without magic. That is what our kind calls them."

"And just who are our kind?"

Helga glanced at him, studying him as closely as she had the stone. "I am so glad to have found you."

Godric took a step back. What could she mean? He rubbed a rough hand over his face, trying to mask his confusion. "I did not know you were searching for me."

"I have always searched for you. And my father. And my father's father. And his father."

Now Godric could not hide his bewilderment. He drew away from the shadow of the stone and stood directly in the sunlight, letting the last of it's warmth glide over his skin. "What do you say?"

Helga lowered her eyes and laughed to herself. "You have misunderstood me. I apologize. I was not speaking of you only, Gryffindor. I was speaking of our people, all of us. I have spent years looking for other witches and wizards, families with magical blood like mine…like ours. And so did my father. My ancestors always possessed magic. Did yours?"

"I do not know," Godric replied truthfully. He felt ashamed for not knowing such a simply thing.

Helga seemed to understand though. "Was your sire a wizard?"

"No. My mother though-"

"A witch?"

"Yes."

"Then you are a half-blood." She touched his arm lightly.

Godric stared at her, wishing to disrupt the physical contact between them, but ensnared by her nonetheless. "What is a half-blood?"

"A child with one magical parent and one Muggle parent. They are indeed rare. Salazar swears they can be found in the East, but you are the first I have encountered in Britain."

"And your parents?"

Helga's eyebrows arched slightly, her bearing suddenly becoming stiff and proud. "My mother was a witch and my father a wizard. Such has it been for my family for generations. And thus have we ruled Cornwall."

Slowly, she folded her knees and sat with her back against the stone. Her fingers traced circles in the grass besides her. "Sit with me."

He complied and lowered himself onto the ground. Through his cloak he could feel the pulsing of the stone's magic behind him. The air was spiced with the same heady scent he had sensed when Helga had first touched the rock.

Godric felt as though he had drunk too much wine. His head was heavy and he longed to stretch out upon the earth and rest his head.

No.

His muscles stiffened and with some difficulty, he mastered himself.

Helga watched the cloudless sky for a moment, seeming to forget that he was even there. At length, she looked once more at Godric and smiled.

"I want to build a school."

His eyes widened at this strange suggestion, his mind sluggish.

"A school for wizards," Helga continued, her voice now low, a frantic whisper. "And then we might all dwell together…our kind. We would not be lost and there should be little need to leave primitive markers in barren places like this. If we could unite all the wizards of this isle and of Scotland and perhaps Ireland…oh, it would make all the difference."

"Is this the cause of your war?" Godric asked her outright.

Helga arched her neck to get a better look at him.

She is judging me, Godric realized. It was plain from the crisp light in her eyes. Perhaps this was the deciding moment. Perhaps she would choose here and now if she should dispose of him or hoard him to herself like one of her many treasures.

The cold neutrality of her expression made his gut twist uneasily. She was ever so decisive and he sensed that she did not regret her decisions once made…unlike him.

Would he do things different, had he the chance? Would he have abandoned his clan to her wrath only to survive as a hunted quarry himself?

Or was he better off, sitting here now with her, his back pressed to the thrumming stone and the sun dashing the sky with gold above them?

If only he had a Seer's mind.

Helga's nostrils narrowed. She looked shrewd. "The war is another matter," she said coldly. "If I can control all of this island, then perhaps the Muggles will leave us be when the time comes."

"You cannot tell me that your conquest is solely for the benefit of our kind," Godric replied.

His incredulity made her frown. Helga pushed herself to her feet and stood with her back to him.

"I wage the war because I have the power to," she said at length, after he'd grown cold sitting in her shadow. "If you had the same power you would do so as well."

"No, I do not think I would."

"So says the slave. He is content with his position. He does not know what glories await him."

Godric thought she was teasing him and anger rushed through his veins.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, standing at once. But even atop his legs, he could not tower over her. Helga was nearly as tall as he.

She rolled her eyes at him, her chin puckering as she smiled. "I want you for my mate."

He said nothing, let the rising wind carry his thoughts away until he was left only with his shock.

"I will not have a king, but I will have a mate," she said. "I wish to have one of my own kind, a wizard who can sire my child and secure my legacy. You are native to this land, Godric, despite your Norse blood. And you are powerful. I can feel your magic."

He did not reply, but put his back to her. The hills behind the stone were flushed violet now with the encroaching dark. A hand lit upon his broad shoulder.

"Godric," she said, speaking directly into his ear now. "Do not tell me you have not longed for the same prize."

* * *

The woods were close about him. Smothering. Thick branches clotted the sky, obscuring the sun and casting shadows down to shelter him. The soil was powdery, covering his horse's fetlocks with clay and fallen pine needles. Nestled between the great, ancient tree trunks were oddly shaped boulders, heralds of the old days when the druids had lived and worshipped in this place.

Salazar knew now why this forest was called forbidden. It was a place belonging to magic, untamed and wild. Even the creatures that lived in the small hollows were governed by a power that was not their own.

This place, this forest, was living. Breathing. And it watched him as he rode with five of Helga's soldiers to the Ravenclaw's stronghold.

At the start of his journey, he had cursed Helga for sending him on such an errand. It was arduous, unpleasant and dangerous. She knew just as well as he that Rowena of Alba would renounce the offer to become a client queen. But Helga loved to taunt her opponents. She relished in flaunting herself and her power, unaware that her invincibility would soon dwindle.

Power could be restrained but not owned. Helga had kept hers for many years and now it would be sundered.

Salazar would make sure of that.

This forest, he realized, was proof to his claim. Here magic had grown feral, uncontrollable, and not even he could harness it with spells and incantations.

It was written in the old stones that appeared every now and then amidst the trembling roots.

Seasons changed. The moon waxed and waned. Helga's time was ending.

But his was just beginning.

Salazar soothed his worries with this thought, promised himself that his plot would work and that he would emerge from the oncoming onslaught unscathed.

Loyalty meant weakness. He could not afford to be chained to any fraction.

He knew this, just as he knew that Helga had refused to take him for her mate because he came from the East. She wanted a man native to England…not him.

And she would have cause to rue her decision. He was not English, but he was a Pureblood, and better than any conjurer that lived on this isle.

Ah, well. No matter now. He would not waste himself on the likes of her, not while he had a chance, a sacred opportunity to gain control of things once more.

Slowly, the forest began to clear before him. Branches bowed away and the sky reigned supreme once more.

Coming to the edge of the woods, Salazar had his first view of an ungainly, stone structure. It was an incoherent mass of crumbling towers, fractured walls and narrow, black windows.

He sighed to himself, unable to mask his disappointment.

So this was Hogwarts Castle.


End file.
